Glass(l)es(s)
by rjmg
Summary: Would he have loved her even in the absence of glasses?


"S-senpai" she mumbles in her sleep.

"Shh…shh…" he whispers gently in an attempt to pacify her, caressing her bubblegum hair in the process. Akihito allows himself to drift off in thought as Mirai drifted off into slumber on his lap.

Bespectacled beauty, he called her. And indeed she was.

* * *

He had invited her over to his apartment for a movie marathon earlier that day, just as it was decided that he had nothing better to do—though deep inside he just wanted her company; this want evolving into a need, growing and growing each day. Mirai was dubious first hearing the suggestion, responding with the inevitable tremble of her petite frame (which so often fascinated him) as she hustled herself internally for a reply. After failing in a grand display of awkwardness, she surrenders.

"H-how unpleasant."

"I'll take that as a yes then."

"K-Kanbara senpai you're being unpleasant!" said the flushed and flustered girl as she absently polished her glasses. At this his features softened and collapsed into a smile. _Damn you, Kuriyama- san._

* * *

His face remains that way as she settles in again. He doesn't halt in stroking her hair though; just allowing the downy strands to brush his fingers and leave the tips tingling every time they broke contact. He would've loved for her to stay up longer, have the two of them slump lazily on the carpet with some snacks and the lights dim (to emphasize the movie-house vibe) as the television projected old tapes he had stashed away, but she got drowsy in the middle of it all. Her head dropped to his shoulder—not that he didn't like it, but it wasn't even half past 9!—and all he could do was sigh and reposition her to a more comfy placement. He brought her head to his lap, careful not to wake her. Having Mirai so close and comfortable with him made his heart race, and having the view of this serene beauty at the moment didn't help slow it down.

The faint moonlight from the window illuminated a portion of her face, bathing a marble cheek. He brings down his fingers from her hair and trails through it, tracing the figure of her jaw with every ounce of gentleness he had in him. He leaves a lingering finger under her chin as the sight of her mouth tugs at his attention—seemingly soft and supple lips he's been itching to introduce to his own. The same ones in which her stuttering mannerisms came out of, which captivated him altogether.

_If i couldn't kiss her now, then at least a quick graze might content me. _He pondered on this as he brushed his thumb over it, heart thumping; light as a breeze though, so not to rouse her. But his efforts waste away as she purses them at the slight touch and her long lashes begin to flutter behind the frames of her sleep-skewed spectacles. Thumb hovering barely an inch from her mouth, his breath catches as she begins to stir. He'd prefer not to be caught red-handed, but he's also curious as to how that'll play out, if ever. Before that could happen, though, she crumples into him again, and he knows he's safe. He sinks back and brings his hand to the floor, turning his gaze to the ceiling. He shuts his eyes, sighs, then declines his head to glance at her once more. The red-rimmed glasses glint as light hits it, catching his attention. Hesitantly, carefully, lovingly, he slips it off.

In his hand he held the glasses he has fallen in love with, what made her his bespectacled beauty. Would he have loved her without it?

If it weren't for the glasses, who knew if this protagonist would've still chosen the path which involved his active participation? Would he have gone through the effort of convincing just a regular (glasses-less) girl on the brink of suicide? And if so, how would he have convinced her, if not pouring out his heart into the great concern for glasses?

In his hand he held the glasses he has fallen in love with, and on his lap was the cradled female who wore it. He would've thought that the spectacles were a critical reason to why he was crazed for this girl, —_how often do you come by a girl who'd be suit to model any kind of glasses and still keep their beauty consistent!—_and he and his guts might've stuck around because the fetish was acting up, but in that moment, with Mirai stripped of her glasses, unaware, and clothed in the vulnerabilities he has grown to know and she has grown to show, he barely even notices what was absent from her. Because his throbbing heart didn't stop; no, it didn't. He came to realize that if he may have had any other flawless chick in glasses, he still wouldnt've fallen as hard as he did for Mirai. Because Mirai is..._Mirai_. Throw them together and you'll have a rare and special combination.

They weren't your typical batch Spirit World Warrior and youmu; Mirai the live descendant of the cursed bloods, and Akihito the unusual immoral half yomu—both outcasts to the world they resided in. And something about her just drew him to protect her. He then began to understand that it wasn't only the glasses which triggered the relationship they developed, but the eccentricity they both possessed; their similarities led them to each other.

_How unpleasant, Kuriyama-san; _he thought teasingly.

Kuriyama Mirai, on a feat to seize the creature that dominated his interior being, got tangled up with fate in the process—not to mention the clumsy little thing she actually is. As she searched, she bore further within him, later finding that she has latched onto his heart instead. And neither of them could shake it off. Though she may have literally stabbed him straight through in their first encounter, though his immortality granted some form of rejuvenation, the imprint Mirai left in his chest was entirely different. So in the midst of the night and that moment, he cherished what he had in his grasp—no, not the glasses, but the girl who wore it, the warrior he loved.

The glasses lay on top of his desk as he decides to set it down, familiarizing himself with her appearance in its absence.


End file.
